


of monsters and men | eruri

by theredking



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Everyone Needs Hugs, Heavy Angst, Hospital Setting, It's depressing, Lots of Resentment, M/M, Military, My Update Schedule Sucks Sorry, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reasons Why I'm Going To Hell: This, Slow Burn, lots of trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27908284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredking/pseuds/theredking
Summary: " war is a slippery slope.what would you do?becomeswhat will you do?becomesmy god,what have i done?"in which two broken people try to put their pieces back together again.
Relationships: Levi/Erwin Smith
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	1. Homecoming

The plane touches down with a jolt that jars his body, but he barely feels it. He barely feels anything these days. The world washes over him like waves from a great ocean, battering his body against the rocks on the shore, and sometimes he wishes he could just lie down in its depths, surrender to the currents, let the water fill his lungs until his vision goes black, and then finally he will have peace. Or will he? He does not know what awaits him in whatever lies beyond, but he knows all too well the sins he has committed, the lives he has whispered away with a word, the bodies left behind in his wake. He devises brilliant plans to kill people and they worship him as a hero; the irony is never lost on him. 

He misses the days when he was young and naïve, when he believed that no matter what atrocities he committed, they were all scrubbed away because he was only doing what was _right._ He was protecting his country, his family, his friends from people who would watch them burn, and in their names he was willing to do anything. Ah, but throw a boy into a cage with monsters, and sooner or later he will become one himself. Either that, or he will die. And Erwin Smith is not dead yet, so that leaves only one alternative. 

“Captain Smith, _sir!_ ” 

His musings are interrupted as a young man approaches, stiff-legged and snapping his hand to his brow in a salute. Erwin sighs and moves to stand, pushing back his tray table. “At ease. There’s no need to stand on formalities; I’m not your CO anymore.” 

The thought stings, and the muscles in his jaw clench. _Honorable discharge_ , they call it. They’d written him letters in fancy script with signatures from all the big names in the capital, thanking him for his service, reminiscing on his accomplishments, and wishing him well, but their words were hollow and did nothing to console him. He’d given nine years of his life to the Marine Corps, nine years of blood and sweat and soul and tears, and all of that is washed away in a single sentence. But he can expect nothing less; he is not useful to them anymore. 

Out of habit, he reaches for the place his right arm once occupied and finds nothing but empty air. The doctors told him he was lucky to survive. Erwin isn’t sure if that was lucky at all. What is he supposed to _do_ now? He knows nothing else. Oh, maybe once he’s medically cleared and if he passes his final psych evaluation they’ll let him sit behind a desk and move pieces on a board, but he doesn’t want that. He wants to go back, back to the desert, be back in the field where he belongs. He’s _good_ at his job, he knows it—except when he isn’t. Except when his clever schemes fall apart and people get killed, people like Mike, Mike, _Mike_ —

He rams his knuckles into his forehead, as if he can physically shove the thoughts away. He can’t dwell on that now. The young man—a Private First Class, judging by his stripes—is chattering away, oblivious to Erwin’s internal struggle, though he pauses as Erwin moves to hoist his backpack onto his left shoulder. “I can get that,” the young man offers. 

Erwin knows it’s a kind gesture, a helpful one, but it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Is that how people will look at him now? As a cripple, an invalid, someone who can’t take care of himself? 

“It’s fine,” he mutters, swinging it up and onto his back, though it hangs by a single strap. “I’ve got it.” 

He keeps his gaze downcast as he follows the young man through the airport, and his ears burn a brilliant crimson as he moves to try to pick up a suitcase and drops his backpack in the process, both ending up on the floor. And so he’s forced to accept the young man’s offer, shame bubbling up in his chest as the kid swings a suitcase easily in each hand, still babbling about who knows what. Erwin remembers boot camp, where he’d been the fastest to climb through the obstacle course, one of the first to make the swim across the bay, the guy who could pick up and throw a tire twice his weight all over a football field. But no more. He can’t even manage a fucking thirty-pound suitcase. He’s weak, and pathetic, and _broken_. 

The private hands him off to a man with a thick ginger beard who tries to engage Erwin in conversation as they drive to their final destination, but after Erwin gives only a few halfhearted, noncommittal replies, he gives up and the rest of the ride passes in silence. Erwin stares out the window, watching the scenery fly by. This is his home, his first love, the place he has given everything to protect. So why does he feel so much like a stranger? 

He recognizes the building that they approach. Eldian Memorial Medical Center is the country’s premier veteran hospital and rehabilitation center. But unless the doctors here know how to regrow flesh and muscle and bone, it doesn’t matter. They can’t help him. But he knows his stay is indefinite until they deem him fit to function in society, and so he has accepted it with quiet resignation. He feels like he has no say in his life anymore; he is just pulled along wherever the wind takes him. 

“It’s been an honor, Captain Smith,” his driver says as he pulls up to the front entrance. “You go on and check yourself in; I’ll drive around the side and someone will bring your things up to your room. These are good people here,” he adds. “You’ll be back on the horse in no time. Good luck, sir.” 

Erwin is vaguely aware of mumbling a _thank you_ as he climbs out of the car. He stares up at the grand facade in front of him, its stainless steel and glass exterior shimmering under the afternoon sun. And he doesn’t know why, but a sudden flash of fear pulses through his body. _That’s stupid. It’s a hospital, not a fucking insurgent stronghold. Get your shit together_. He takes a deep breath and walks through those sliding glass doors. 

Inside looks like… well, a regular hospital lobby, but with a super-modern Art Deco aesthetic. He looks up to find intricately woven metal beams across the ceiling, windows in odd shapes, and a fountain that looks vaguely phallic. There are people at the tables in the corner, talking over coffee, and they look up as he passes. One of them is a kid who can’t be more than fourteen, and his eyes widen as they land on the captain’s solemn face, and he jabs the young man beside him with his elbow and hisses something that contains the words “Erwin Smith.” The kid is rebuked immediately and his companion moves to apologize, but Erwin has already moved by. He balls his remaining hand into a fist and clenches and unclenches it repeatedly. He’d better get used to that, he supposed. With a sigh, he approaches the front desk. 

A woman in a Navy uniform greets him with a warm smile. “Captain Smith, I presume?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“My name is Nadia Brax. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” She extends a hand, and Erwin already has an apology prepared when he realizes it’s her left. He glances up and is met with a kind, knowing look. _Right. I bet they do this kind of thing all the time._ He shakes it with a nod. 

“Thank you, ma’am.” 

“One of our volunteers will take you to your room. If there’s anything non-medical that you need, you can call me. If at any time you experience a medical emergency, there’s a button by the bed; press that and a doctor will be there in less than a minute. Your doctor is Dr. Yeager, and he’ll go over the specifics of your rehabilitation plan with you later.” 

She must have noticed the slightly glazed look in his eyes, the somber cast to the lines on his face, because she pauses and her brows furrow slightly in concern. “Are you all right, Captain? Can I do anything for you right now?”

“No, ma’am,” he tells her, and that’s the truth. She can’t do anything for him, not unless she can rewrite the past or bring back the dead. 

“Okay. Just know that if you ever need anything, even just someone to talk to, there’s always someone here for you.” She turns towards the back and calls out, “Leila!” 

A slender girl with red hair and brilliant green eyes pops out from behind a door. “Yes, Lieutenant Brax?” 

“Show Captain Smith to his accommodations, please. A bit of a tour wouldn’t hurt either, if he’s up to it.” She flashes a questioning look his way, and Erwin nods. It couldn’t hurt. Anything to keep his mind off why he’s really here. 

“Okay. If you’ll follow me, sir,” Leila tells him, bouncing on her heels. She radiates such energy, such enthusiasm, that he can’t help but smile. She looks about sixteen or seventeen, he guesses, in her later high school years. He tries to think back to his own. Was he ever that happy then too? 

She’s a good tour guide, showing him around and giving him tips on how to remember what goes where. And she’s clearly well-versed in this—she doesn’t ask him any questions, though she keeps sneaking sideways glances in his direction. It almost amuses him. He’s been treated like a celebrity since he stepped off the plane, and he wonders what the public knows, what the government has told them of what he’s done. Not the truth, that’s for sure. They wouldn’t look at him like a hero if they knew that. 

His room is bright and spacious, with pale blue walls and curtains that reach from floor to ceiling. There’s a television and a pair of chairs, a night table and a chest. Both are bolted to the floor, he realizes idly. He wonders who tried to walk out of the hospital with them to make them have to do that. 

“You’ve got a shower and a toilet and if you need anything, you can call downstairs,” Leila is saying as she gestures around. “I think Dr. Yeager will be up here soon to talk about the important things. He’s one of the best; his research using electrodes inside the muscle tissue to mimic real sensation and control for artificial limbs is some of the most cutting-edge in the world. You’re in good hands, sir,” she adds with a bright smile. 

“Mm.” Erwin nods slowly. He’s done a little bit of research; Grisha Yeager is certainly one of the top specialists in his field. But no prosthesis, no matter how advanced, can substitute for the limb he lost. It can’t clean and load a gun in split-seconds, can’t hold his body weight while he clings from a ledge, can’t replicate the finite little sensations needed to serve as a proper soldier. His discharge was for disability, after all. 

“Anyway, I’ll leave you to get settled. Remember to call if you need anything,” she says, and then turns and exits the room, already speaking rapidly into her phone as she steps out the door. Erwin looks around with a soft sigh. As far as prisons go, he supposes this one isn’t so bad. Because he makes no mistake; that’s what this is. By order of the US Armed Forces Council, he is not allowed to leave until the doctors have determined him physically and mentally fit to return to civilian life. There’s a reason for that, he knows. Someone who is thrust back into normal life too quickly can be a danger to everyone around them. And Erwin has always been a fairly patient man. He will wait, he supposes, as long as he needs. It gives him more time to think, anyway. Because he still has no idea what happens the minute he walks out these doors for the last time. His mother is ill; his father is dead; his siblings are scattered to the winds with families and lives of their own. And all his friends are in the desert or in the grave. Where will he go after this? 

The thought is anxiety-provoking, and he tries not to dwell on it. First, he has to focus on his recovery, whatever that will mean. He finds his bags resting by the bedside and begins the chore of unpacking them, settling his rather meager belongings into the closet and drawers. When he reaches the bottom of his suitcase, he finds something hard nestled between his shirts, and he draws it out with a faraway look. It is a framed picture taken long ago, of the first squad he commanded, and he touches each little face in turn. _Dead, dead, missing in action, paralyzed, dead…_ It is a somber litany, and then he finds himself, grinning confidently at the camera, his arm thrown around the man to his right, who looks rather unamused with the whole thing, and he feels a familiar pain in his chest. _Mike_. One of his first friends, and the only man to stay by his side as he was swapped from one division to the other. His best friend, really, and Erwin can’t help but picture those steel blue eyes and sandy blonde hair that was always too long for regulation. And then he remembers the acrid tang of copper in the air, the blood splattered across his clothing, half his friend’s face missing and the remaining half twisted in a distorted grimace, and he’s suddenly sick. He stumbles to the bathroom and empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet, head bowed and skin clammy as he hunches over the porcelain bowl. It’s been months now, but he still can’t get that face out of his head. His handsome friend, reduced to charred flesh and pink mist, all because Erwin fucked up, all because he wasn’t careful. 

He stands slowly, shakily, flushes the mess and washes his face in the sink, staring at the man who greets him in the mirror. He hardly recognizes him. Erwin Smith is tall, strong, built like a wide receiver with broad shoulders and long legs and big hands. His gaze is piercing, his expression proud, and he carries himself in a way that radiates charisma and makes others drawn to him, wanting to follow. But this man is none of that. His skin is ashen, his face gaunt, his cheeks sunken. The shadows beneath his eyes are so deep they resemble bruises, and the irises above them are dull, hollow, lifeless. His hair is a mess and he needs to shave, and his right arm ends in a mangled stump a few inches below his shoulder. He can’t salute properly, nor pledge his hand across his heart the way he’s done for so long. He looks at this man and doesn’t see a visionary or a leader. He sees a shadow, a cracked and hollow shell. 

And no matter how good Grisha Yeager is, he doesn’t think the man can fix that. But he waits anyway, perched in a chair by the window with a book in hand, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Those are a recent acquisition too; the blow to his head during the explosion left his close sight muddled and fuzzy. They’re an antique pair, with round wire frames that make him look like a bookish professor. With them on he looks like his father, and perhaps that was his unconscious motivation when he’d picked them. 

He loses track of time, as he often does when he reads. It has always been a favorite pastime of his. He enjoys histories, mostly, tales of the past that give wisdom for the future, though he suspects that is his father’s influence as well. He wonders what he would say if he could see Erwin now. _They may put my name in one of your history books someday. How does that make you feel?_

His reminiscing is interrupted by a knock at the door. Erwin looks up to find a man clad in a white coat leaning against the doorframe, and he takes a moment to study him. The doctor is tall and thin, with wispy brown hair that falls to his shoulders and a hint of a mustache above his upper lip. His eyes are a stormy grey, hidden behind thick lenses, and his expression is serious. But thin lips part in a small smile as he enters the room. “Ah, Captain Smith. What are you reading?” 

Erwin turns the book over to show him the cover. “Just another book on Patton.” 

“Quite the character, wasn’t he? He certainly had an admirable mindset. A controversial man, to be sure, but so are all the great ones. One man’s god is another man’s monster, after all.” 

The doctor glances down at the tablet in his hands. “I’ve had a look at all the notes from your previous doctors. You’ve been through quite a bit, Captain, and I have good news and bad news for you. Which would you like first?” 

“The latter, I guess,” Erwin mumbles. He doesn’t think anything the doctor can say will faze him at this point. 

“Brave man. Well then. You’ve got a long road ahead of you, Captain. I’ll have to do a bit of an assessment of my own to determine the exact details, but from what I can see from these scans, that blast didn’t do your body any favors. And your last psychiatric evaluation was—how do I put this—alarming, to say the least. You’re going to need a certain kind of mental tenacity to push through this, Captain, and I think you’re lacking that at this current moment.” He pauses, seeing the resigned look on Erwin’s face. “But—and here’s the good news—you’re not done yet. I won’t sugar-coat it for you; it’s going to be hard and it’s going to be hell, but you can get through this. You’re going to need to fight, and hard, but if you stick to the plan, you’re going to walk out that door in full control of your life. How does that sound?” the doctor questions. 

“Daunting,” Erwin admits. But he has never been one to back down from a challenge. He is stubborn, tenacious, driven, and he has never yet met a mountain he cannot climb. This one looms taller than all the others, but he will submit it too. Whatever it takes. That’s what Mike would want for him. He raises his head, and for a moment his brilliant blue eyes flash with a remnant of their former spark. “But bring it on, Doctor.” 

Grisha chuckles softly and scribbles something down. “Good. I like that. All right, Captain Smith. I’m going to do a quick physical, just to get a baseline, and have a look at that arm, if you don’t mind. Can you take your shirt off?” 

Erwin obliges. In the past few months, he’s gotten more comfortable with doctors than anyone should rightfully have to be. Dr. Yeager surveys him with a critical glance, scribbling on his tablet. At least he doesn’t grimace like some have. Erwin’s chest and back are a mess of newly healed burn scars, and the deep gash that crosses from his ribs to his hipbone still weeps sometimes. He’s lost count of the number of skin grafts that they’ve had to do, and the number of times he’s gone under the knife to remove little shards of shrapnel still lodged in the thick masses of scar tissue. Dr. Yeager is careful with those parts, and the cool metal of his instruments feels good against Erwin’s skin. He takes the captain’s vitals, runs him through a series of simple exercises and reflex tests, and then finally turns his attention to the bandages covering the ruins of Erwin’s right arm. 

“Can I have a look?” he asks. Erwin gives him a tight nod, and the doctor carefully unwraps the bandaging with gloved fingers. The sight, as always, is enough to bring the acidic taste of bile to the back of his throat. The skin is red and angry, and though the burnt parts have been carefully cut away, there is no repairing some of the damage. Dr. Yeager hums thoughtfully, gently palpating the area, and Erwin can’t help but wince. The doctor looks up with a frown. “Not as well-healed as I would have liked. I can’t get you fitted for a prosthesis until we’ve gotten that inflammation under control. Did they have you on antibiotics?” he asks, and then answers his own question a moment later, looking at his tablet. “Ah, I see. Okay. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to start you on a regimen of something that’s a little more experimental but has shown a lot of promise in my trials. That is, if you consent to being one of my subjects. Once it’s decently healed, then we can start talking about hardware. I think you’ll be impressed,” Grisha says with a wry smile. “But again, only if that’s something you want. If not, I can go a more standard route. It’s your choice.” 

Erwin thinks about it for a moment. All his mistakes, all his regrets have come about because he chose to take a risk, to not play it safe. But that is also how he achieved his greatest triumphs. And maybe, he thinks, maybe one day this research will benefit people like him all across the world. “I want to do it,” he said. 

Grisha nods, as if he’d expected that. “Excellent. I’ll have the paperwork prepared, and you can look it over whenever you’d like. You are also free to withdraw from the trial at any time should you so choose. But I hope we can make some real progress, Captain Smith. I’m looking forward to working with you. And if you ever have any questions, my number is on file.” 

He stands again, and Erwin does too. This time, when Grisha extends his left hand, Erwin grasps it without thinking about it. They’re good at this, he realizes. Maybe he can get good at doing this, too. 

“You’ll meet with your physical therapist, occupational therapist, and psychologist tomorrow. I hand-picked this team myself; I have high hopes for you.” Grisha turns to go, but pauses in the doorway. “Nothing is ever as bleak as it seems, Captain Smith. Remember that.” 

And Erwin is left with the strange feeling that Grisha Yeager can read his mind as the doctor strides away, white coat swishing behind him. Optimism doesn’t come easily to him these days, not with the darkness that’s clouded his vision. But he has to try. That’s what his father would want, what Mike would want. And Erwin has never liked disappointing anyone.


	2. The Devil of Sahir

The next day is a whirlwind of names and faces and long strings of medical jargon and plans upon plans upon plans. Erwin has to give the staff credit; they’re certainly organized. But by the time he finishes meeting with his physical therapist, he’s exhausted. Mentally _and_ physically because they’ve worked him hard, and so he collapses onto his bed with a soft groan. He’s no stranger to long days, to brutal hours under a scorching sun, to running until his legs feel like lead, but this is a new type of exhaustion entirely. And it’s only the second day, he realizes with a sigh. Months off his feet and out of the game have made him soft and weak. He has to get his strength back if he wants to succeed here. 

He closes his eyes and lets his head fall against the pillow. _I’ll just rest for a moment,_ he thinks. But he’s barely nodded off when a sharp rap on his doorframe breaks into his consciousness. Erwin lifts his head, muttering under his breath. There is no rest for the wicked after all. 

Standing there is a lanky teen with floppy dark hair and brilliant sea-green eyes. He waves enthusiastically as Erwin meets his gaze. “Captain Smith! I’m Eren. Dr. Dominguez sent me to make sure you’re doing the exercises she gave you.” 

Dr. Angelina Dominguez is his occupational therapist, and he could tell within five minutes of meeting her that she was going to be perhaps his hardest driver. She’s a little scrap of a woman with big eyes and thick curls, but somehow she manages to be far more intimidating than any drill instructor he’s ever had. She is certainly not someone he wants to find himself on the bad side of, and so he picks himself up reluctantly. He’s not going to enjoy this, he knows. He’s taken for granted all of his life how confident his dominant hand is compared to his weaker one, and now that he only has the latter to work with, simple tasks are a struggle. Dr. Dominguez has given him a list of exercises to practice to improve his fine motor skills, and one of them involves tracing lines and shapes, and so he pulls out the folder she gave him. The kid—Eren, was that his name?—watches with approval, his arms folded across his chest. 

“Well, at least I don’t have to bully you. Some people are a lot more resistant,” Eren notes. “How do you like it here so far?” 

“Everyone seems… very organized and very intelligent,” Erwin replies after a moment. He picks up the special pencil he’s been given and gets to work, his brows furrowed in concentration. His lines are awkward and squiggly, more like a kindergartener’s scrawl than a twenty-seven-year-old man’s. Another thing he took for granted. Now, like a child, he’s going to have to relearn even the basics. 

“Yeah, that about sums it up. Have you had a chance to check out the rec areas yet?” the teen asks. “They’re pretty neat. State of the art and all that. I’m not supposed to use them for, like, personal reasons, but…” His eyes flash with mischief. “Nobody really minds. Well, except my dad, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” 

“He works here?” Erwin asks, shaking his head at his sorry attempt to trace a circle. It looks more like a vaguely egg-shaped blob, and Eren walks over and peers over his shoulder. Erwin’s face burns as the teen studies his shaky script, but all Eren says is, “Yeah. Don’t grip the pencil so hard. Seems kinda off, but a looser grip actually gives you better control. I think that’s what Dr. Dominguez says anyway.” 

“How old are you?” Erwin asks, half out of curiosity and half to keep himself distracted. “There seem to be a lot of younger… staff? Volunteers?” 

“Yeah, volunteers. A lot of people thinking about going into the medical field or studying pre-med in college or whatever come here to see what it’s all about. This is a teaching hospital, I guess. I’m sixteen. I’m just here ‘cause there’s nowhere else for me to go,” he adds with a crooked grin. “I’m not really smart enough for all this medical stuff. But it’s a good way to meet some cool people.” 

He looks at Erwin almost shyly, and the captain wants to shake his head. _Don’t make me your hero,_ he wants to say. _You don’t know who I am. You don’t know what I’ve done. Pick someone else, anyone else,_ but of course he can’t say any of that because the truth is buried beneath classified files and secret dockets and even if he wanted to he can’t breathe a word. So he just gives the teen a tight-lipped smile. “It’s a very noble way to spend your free time in any case. When I was your age, I was fooling around in some shopping mall with my friends or driving out to God knows where just because I could.” 

He barely remembers those days now. They linger in his memories like an iridescent haze, and he’s never quite sure what is fantasy and what is reality. He thinks he was happy then. He would’ve had no reason not to be. But it’s been so long now, and he’s seen so much since then. The boy he was then is dead, and he’s not sure he likes the man who took his place. That boy was good, kind, generous, maybe a little naïve and immature, but he was a good person. He can’t say the same about the person he is now. 

He draws the final few lines and then pushes the paper away. His hand is cramping, and he shakes it out with a grimace. Why is something that seems so simple such a daunting task? 

Eren scoops up the papers and scans them with a nod. ”Huh. Not terrible. You’ll get better.” And he’s so determinedly optimistic that Erwin can’t help but want to believe him. 

The kid suddenly jumps to his feet, his eyes lighting up. “Have you seen the cafeteria yet? Actually, you probably did on the tour. But it’s awesome. None of that ‘hospital food’ crap, this is good stuff. You hungry?” he questions. 

He is, in fact, hungry. It’s been a long time since breakfast, and he feels his stomach rumble at the mention of food. “Yes,” he replies. 

“Awesome. We can go down there now if you want. Or if you want to go by yourself, that’s cool too.” Eren shrugs his lean shoulders as if he doesn’t care, but Erwin can hear the note of hope hanging in the air. And the kid’s been friendly; he doesn’t want to hurt his feelings. So he nods. 

“I’d be honored if you’d join me. I’ve heard eating lunch by yourself isn’t a very ‘cool’ thing to do,” he adds with a wry smile. 

Eren laughs. “There’s always somebody down there. And everyone here is pretty chill. You should get to know people. They have group activities and stuff on Tuesdays and Fridays, games and fantasy leagues and movie nights and all that. My dad always says that recovery is a team effort, and the better you trust your team, the easier it gets.” 

“Same rules as in the field, then,” Erwin returns with faint amusement. He stands and takes a deep breath, then squares his shoulders. He will have to face the world like this eventually. He might as well start now. “On your lead.” 

Eren leads him down to the cafeteria, chattering on about video games and football and whatever else teenage boys do to entertain themselves. Erwin does his best to listen, though his mind keeps wandering. He is on edge, every muscle in his body tensed as he steps into the wide-open space. There are people here, a lot of them, more people than Erwin has seen since his injury, and now they will all see him like this and he can’t do this, he can’t be weak, and he turns and begins to mumble an apology through ragged breaths but Eren catches his arm. The teen looks at him, those sea-green eyes filled with sincerity. 

“You can go back, if you really want. But you’re gonna have to come down here eventually. I promise, Captain Smith, everybody here, they’re working on their own stuff. Nobody’s paying you any extra attention.” 

Erwin is startled with the ease in which Eren is able to identify his dilemma. _But he’s been here for a while,_ he corrects himself. _He knows what to do._ He looks like a goofy kid, but Erwin should know better than to underestimate him. He returns his gaze with a small, but sincere smile. “Are you studying to become a psychologist, Eren?” he teases lightly and takes a step forward. It is a signal that he is ready, ready to at least confront this one obstacle. Maybe. Hopefully. He still feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle as they walk to an empty table and feels like the eyes of everyone in the room are on him, judging him, condemning him, but when he looks around everyone is intent upon their own meals and conversations. He’s being paranoid, he knows. He’s not being rational. But that doesn’t make the feeling go away. He tries to push it aside as they make their way through the rather impressive selection to collect their food. 

Eren shakes his head vigorously, his hair flying everywhere. “Hell no. I’m not that smart. That stuff is cool and all, but I don’t think I can spend another six or eight years in school. I like doing stuff, getting out there, you know?” 

He takes such a large bite of his burger that Erwin is afraid he’ll choke. At least he has the decency not to try to talk with his mouth full, and they pass the next few moments in silence. Eren wasn’t wrong; the food is far and away better than any hospital he’s ever known. Better than a lot of the shit they had out in the desert. He realizes for the first time how hungry is and he scarfs his entire plate down in minutes. That’s good, he thinks, because he hasn’t had much of an appetite the last few months. He’s lost weight, too much weight, to the point where he sometimes looks half corpse, half man. Why feed a body you don’t want to exist? But for the first time since waking up in that helicopter, he feels okay. 

“I’m going to get something else,” he tells Eren. The teen nods, scrolling through something on his phone, and Erwin makes his way back to the kitchen. He helps himself to another large serving of pasta, nodding his thanks to the man serving behind the counter. He wonders if this will last, or if this is just a brief window of respite and the darkness will close around him again. But he has no way of knowing. No way except to just keep moving forward, keep getting through each day. 

Lost in thought, he doesn’t notice the man who steps into his path until he crashes straight into him. Erwin is holding his plate in his lone remaining hand and it crashes to the floor as he stumbles backwards, stunned. He manages to keep his balance, though the other man isn’t so lucky. Erwin sees him land hard on his ass, and he flushes crimson. _Shit. Shit, shit, shit…_

“I’m so sorry,” he begins, extending his arm to help the man up, but it is rudely shoved aside. The man climbs to his feet on his own, a scowl on his thin lips. He is small, Erwin realizes, but compact, his limbs corded sinew beneath his clothing. His face is pale, his raven hair long and ramrod-straight, but what is most striking about him is his eyes. They are a deep, flinty grey and cold as ice, and Erwin can practically feel the temperature dropping as those eyes land on him. They radiate pure, unadulterated hatred, completely directed at the captain, and Erwin takes an unconscious step back. 

“Watch where you’re going, _moron_.” 

The words are spat out with such vitriol that Erwin feels like he’s been punched. “I’m sorry,” he says again, but the man just scoffs. He takes a step closer, and though Erwin is easily a head taller than him, he is left feeling small in the other’s presence. 

“I don’t care how many limbs you’ve got. I’ll beat the shit out of you regardless. Got it?” the grey-eyed man declares, and Erwin just stares at him, mouth half-open, gaping in shock. It’s been so long since someone challenged him, so long since he’s dealt with this kind of… _disrespect,_ and it catches him off-guard. 

There’s a sudden rush of movement, and Eren is between them. “It was an accident, Sergeant Ackerman, really, it was…” 

Ackerman, as the man has been named, sneers up at him too. “What are you doing here, brat? Don’t you have someone else to bother?” 

Before Eren can reply, two orderlies step between them. “That’s enough, Ackerman,” one of them states. “Take a walk before you start trouble.” 

The grey-eyed man fixes Erwin with one last glare, then stalks off, radiating fury. Erwin blinks as he watches him retreat, then waves off the orderlies when they ask him if he’s all right. He’s fine, he tells them. Just surprised, is all. He turns to Eren with a baffled look. “What was _that_ about?” 

Eren groans and rakes his fingers through his messy hair. “Just… stay out of his way. He’s a wild card; nobody here knows what to do with him.” 

“Who is he?” Erwin asks. 

“Levi Ackerman. They call him the—”

“Devil of Sahir,” Erwin finishes with wide eyes, because he knows that name. It’s a name perhaps even more renowned than his own, the name of a figure who’s become a verifiable legend in the Corps. _Levi Ackerman._ Erwin had pictured him as a giant of a man, with a presence to match his reputation. This man was so… small, so delicate-looking. But there had been nothing delicate in those eyes. He shook himself roughly. “I thought he would be… taller.” 

Eren laughs at that, though he looks surreptitiously over his shoulder. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He beat the shit out of the last guy who called him short. He’s, uh… he’s been here for a while.” 

And now that Erwin thinks about it, it’s been a while since he’s heard anything about Levi Ackerman. The man was plastered over every briefing he’d ever done, and then suddenly, he wasn’t. He’d thought it strange then, but he hadn’t had time to think about it; casualties were an occupational hazard. But he wonders now, picturing that sharp face, those burning grey eyes, what happened to the man to land him here? He won’t ask, of course. That’s nobody’s business but Levi’s. But he can’t help but be curious. 

Erwin stares down at the mess he made, and suddenly he’s not hungry anymore. He gives Eren an apologetic glance. “I’m going to… go clean up, I think. But thank you for the company.” 

Eren nods quickly, hair falling into his eyes, and he brushes it away with an irritated swipe. “Yeah. Yeah, no problem. See you around, Captain Smith.” 

He looks disappointed, and Erwin feels bad, but his remaining hand is shaking and he knows if he stays here too much longer, he will fall apart. It’s better the kid thinks he’s standoffish than realizes what an utter mess he is. After disposing of what remains on his tray, he makes his way back to his room. He should shower, he knows, but even showering is a chore these days. Still… He’s having a good day. Or he was, before he bumped into Levi Ackerman, but he hopes that some of that initial energy still lasts. And so he takes a deep breath as he steps into the bathroom, noting the fact that there is no lock on the door. He knows why. The statistics are cold, hard, ruthless things; mentally ill veterans have a rate of suicide nearly seventy times that of an ordinary civilian. The staff doesn’t want to give them a place to retreat to for too long. 

He strips off his shirt and tries not to look at himself in the mirror, but he catches a glimpse by mistake, and he cannot help but stare. He is a ruin, a patchwork quilt of scar tissue and healthy skin. His right side bears the worst of it; from his shoulder to his hip, dipping below his waistband, are thick swaths of burned skin. Above that are strange-looking scars, almost like a pockmark pattern, from the shrapnel that exploded outwards and entered his body. He’s been told it was a miracle that none of the pieces pierced his vital organs, but still, the damage is astronomical. And he has lost feeling in many of the burned places; it charred so deep that his nerves were completely seared away. He touches his hand to it lightly and feels only a slight, cool tingle. Once, he was handsome, all toned muscle with broad shoulders and narrow hips, the build of a comic-book superhero. His buddies used to joke with him, call him Captain America, and Mike had gotten him one of those collectible bobble head figurines of the guy to keep the joke running. But he knows with certainty that Captain America doesn’t look like this. Erwin is less hero and more monster; more Frankenstein than First Avenger. His jaw tightens, and he forces himself to look away. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like anyone will be looking at him like that anyway. 

He discards the rest of his clothes and steps into the shower, turning the temperature up as high as it will go. The water is nearly scalding, and the room fills up with so much steam that it’s hard to breathe, but the water rushing over his head, pouring down his ruined body makes him feel like all his scars, all his sins, all the weight he carries is being washed away. And so he stands there for a long time, just letting it run over him, eyes closed and breathing slowed. There are few places he can find peace, and this is one of them. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, but eventually the water begins to cool, and the shock of the temperature change jolts him back into reality. He does his best to scrub himself clean, though it takes so much more effort with only one good arm. Finally, once he is satisfied, he steps out, noting with some disappointment as he passes that nothing has changed; that his body is still the same ugly wreck it was when he stepped into the water. He does not know why he expected anything else; water, no matter how it burns, cannot wash away the past. 

His attempt at shaving is less than ideal, and more than once his hand slips, tearing away a little chunk of skin. But he eyes the crimson liquid that seeps from the cuts with little interest. He has seen far too much blood for it to leave any impression on him now, and he just wipes away the little rivers with a cloth. He studies himself in the mirror, just his face this time. He needs a haircut and a good night’s sleep, and there are lines on his face that weren’t there six months ago, but otherwise he looks like a hint of himself again. Or he would, if his eyes were not so hollow, so bleak. He has a permanently haunted look, and he knows that he will never have that visage of healthy youth again. 

He’s gotten better at dressing himself too, and he only struggles with the button on his pants for a minute this time. He can wear whatever he wants now, he knows, but old habits die hard, and he finds himself donning neatly pressed slacks and a button-down shirt nearly every day. His father had dressed that way, and had always made sure that Erwin understood the importance of impressions, how one had to not only _act_ professional, but _look_ professional too. He fiddles with his collar for another moment before declaring himself satisfied, and he makes his way over to the window. 

Outside is a view of the city, bustling around him, cars crawling down crowded streets and pedestrians moving every which way. The hospital is a bubble, sheltered from the outside world, and Erwin feels as though he is looking upon a distant reality. After a moment, though, the sight starts to make him anxious, and so he picks up his book and returns to his chair. In reading, he finds an escape, one he takes eagerly. 

A doctor comes to check on him; he does his occupational therapy exercises another time; and he takes his evening meal in his room, not wanting to be faced with another confrontation like the day’s earlier one. By the time the sun sets, he is exhausted, and he hopes his mind will let him sleep. When he collapses onto his bed, his heavy eyelids drooping, and feels himself already starting to drift off, he has hope. 

But even when he can sleep, it is rarely peaceful. The nightmares are relentless, and it is common for him to wake up several times a night bathed in cold sweat. There are the historical kind, the ones where he’s back in the desert, replaying the deaths of his friends and brothers over and over again, but he almost prefers those to the more abstract ones. Those are unpredictable, twisting his mind and his fears into something dark and insidious, and they are the ones he truly fears. 

Tonight, he is not so lucky. He finds himself atop a mountain, the wind howling around him, snow so deep he can barely move. The hair on the back of his neck prickles, and he knows that there is something behind him, something that wants his blood. And so he scrambles, trying to fight his way through the drifts, but he knows the thing is gaining on him, knows it is only a matter of time before he is in its clutches. 

And then he stops short, freezing in place, because in front of him is a cavernous ravine. Clinging to the edge and staring up at him with steel blue eyes filled with fear is a familiar face. “ _Erwin_ ,” Mike rasps, the word a desperate plea. “ _Help me_.” 

Erwin reaches down to grab him, but as soon as they touch, his hands are slick and when he looks down, they are covered in blood. His grip is slipping, and he can do nothing as Mike loses his grip and falls into the abyss, crying out his name. And then he feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to meet the gazes of a half-dozen pairs of lifeless eyes, set into pale, corpse-like faces that stare at him in cold accusation. Erwin recognizes each one. Thomas, Nanaba, Gelgar, Henning, Lynne… He was their captain, and he failed them all. 

“ _You killed me_ ,” Nanaba breathes, and she grips a fistful of Erwin’s shirt. More hands reach out, clawing at him, tightening around his neck until he can hardly breathe. “ _Did I mean nothing to you?_ ” 

Erwin wants to speak, wants to cry out, wants to tell him no, he meant everything, they all did, and he’s sorry, he’s so incredibly sorry, but the hands around his throat make it impossible for him to say a word. “ _Reap what you sow,_ ” Henning whispers, and those hands push him backwards. For a moment he is frozen in time, frozen in space, and then he is falling, falling, _falling_ , and he awakens with a jolt. His eyes are wide, wild, and it is several minutes before his heart stops racing, before he feels like he can breathe again. 

The room is suddenly claustrophobic, and he stumbles to his feet, not bothering to even put on shoes as he shoulders open the door and staggers into the hall. A passing nurse, likely doing the night rounds, looks at him with concern. “Captain Smith! Are you all right?” 

“Outside,” he manages, clutching his chest, which has become incredibly tight. “I need… I need to go outside.” 

“Sir, I don’t know if—”

“ _Please_.” 

The man sizes him up, probably deciding that a one-armed man without a weapon probably can’t do that much damage to anyone, and relents with a nod. “Only into the courtyard, and I’ll be keeping an eye on you, sir,” he says, but Erwin barely hears him. He follows numbly as the nurse leads him to a door at the end of the hall, unlocking it with his nametag. Erwin emerges into the evening air, gasping for breath. The air is cool, the first hint of fall, and it chills the sweat on his brow. He looks down to find that his shirt is soaked through, clinging to his chest. 

And he tries to remember what his therapist said, the exercises he is supposed to do when things like this happen. His mind is racing too quickly at first, but as time passes he feels his breathing start to slow and the sense of sharp clarity that always takes hold of him at times like these begins to fade away. _It’s just another stupid dream,_ he tells himself. 

He glances back at the nurse, who looks visibly tense, ready to spring into action should he do something rash. But his voice has evened out by the time he asks, “Can I walk around, just for a minute?” 

“All right,” the man agrees, relaxing slightly as he observes Erwin seemingly calming down. Erwin nods his thanks and hooks his remaining thumb into the pocket of the sweats he’d fallen asleep in, starting off along the well-maintained cobblestone path. He can still hear the sounds of the city in the background, but they fade into the distance, overtaken by the soft rustle of the wind in the trees along the path. Erwin wanders without any real destination in mind, staring up at the night sky. He cannot see the stars from here; there’s too much light pollution, and perhaps he is grateful for that. He would often look at the stars when he was overseas, and knowing that they are the same stars looking down upon him now brings a whole host of complicated feelings he doesn’t want to deal with. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of movement in the darkness, and instantly he is on the defensive. His head snaps around, looking for the source, his eyes narrowed and his breathing shallowed, and he does not relax until his eyes land on a slender figure seated on a bench a little ways off the path. Even silhouetted against the faint lights in the distance, Erwin recognizes him. 

“The hell you doing out here, moron?” 

Levi Ackerman’s voice pierces the quiet of the night like the point of a sword, precise and deadly. Erwin makes his way over, though he hangs back a safe distance, remembering the smaller man’s earlier threat. “Couldn’t sleep,” he replied honestly. “You?” 

“Doesn’t take a scientist to figure that one out.” 

His tone is abrasive, barbed, laced with cynicism and a deep, all-consuming rage that is almost frightening. Erwin swallows, strangely nervous, and he is usually a difficult man to scare. 

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he says after a moment. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.” 

“I don’t want an apology, moron.” Levi picks at his fingernails, a blank, disinterested look plastered across his face, but Erwin can see that beneath his skin, his muscles are taut as a bowstring, ready to snap at any given moment. He may be little, but he is a force to be reckoned with, Erwin realizes. 

Levi looks up after a moment. “What are you doing here?” 

Erwin blinks, confused. “I told you, I couldn’t sleep.” 

“No, moron. Not here as in right now. _Here_ ,” Levi retorts, gesturing to the towering building surrounding them. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

Erwin flinches as Levi leaps to his feet, as quick and lithe as a panther. He crosses the distance between them in a few long strides, and suddenly he’s right in front of Erwin, face-to-face. Or they would be face-to-face if the top of Levi’s head didn't come up to his shoulder; the sight would be almost comical if it weren’t so serious. 

“You shouldn’t _be_ here. You’re an officer, aren’t you? They usually take good care to keep your pretty asses out of anything too dangerous; don’t want to waste four years of education on a corpse, I guess. You’re not _expendable_ like the rest of us. So why the fuck are you here? How’d you lose the arm, _Captain_? Thinking you could play hero?” 

The words sting like lashes from a whip, and when Levi jabs his thumb into Erwin’s chest, he recoils like he’s been shot. _Thinking he could play hero?_ That hits a little too close to home, and his response is cool, too cool, the moment between a flash of lightning and its ensuing clap of thunder where one can taste the acrid tang of electricity in the air. “I go where my men go,” he retorts. “I would never ask anyone to do something I wouldn’t do myself.” 

And that is another tenet of his, another lesson drilled into his brain earlier than he can remember. _You’re a natural leader, Erwin,_ his father had said. _But if you want to be respected, you can’t look at those following you from a pedestal. You have to be on the ground, in their midst, in the thick with them. Only then will you earn their trust,_ he’d said, and Erwin had tried every day to live up to that. 

Levi just sneers. “You really are a moron. You had the choice whether or not to throw yourself into hell, and this is what you chose to do? Tch. I know your type. You’re one of the clever ones with a hero complex, the guy who thinks he can come up with some brilliant plan that will save everyone. You’re an ungrateful bastard, that’s what you are. Do you think I would be here if I had a choice? Do you think I would have done any of this if I had a _choice_?” 

His voice creeps up in pitch at the end, bordering on hysterical, and his eyes are wild as a desert storm as he grips Erwin’s shirt with both hands. “You chose _wrong_ , moron, ‘cause you’re no hero. Now you’re just another fucked-up, sorry excuse for the air you breathe like the rest of us.” 

He releases his grip and steps away, and Erwin is stunned into silence. He just stares, his mouth half-open, as Levi spins on his heel and storms away. And only when the smaller man’s form has faded into shadow is he able to move, able to process what just happened. He is not used to being spoken to that way, to being addressed with such contempt. But as he thinks about what Levi said, he realizes that he’s right. Everything he’s given, and for what? To become another fucked-up, sorry excuse for oxygen? His jaw clenches, and his remaining hand balls into a fist. _No,_ he tells himself. _There was a purpose. I served a purpose._ But the words ring hollow, and he grits his teeth, nails digging into his palm. He has to believe that what he did meant something. Otherwise, there is no point to his existence. 

The nurse is waiting by the door they’d entered. “Feeling better?” he asks. 

_No,_ Erwin wants to say, but instead he nods. “Yes, thank you.” 

They return inside without another word, and Erwin closes his door behind him with a sigh. His head is aching, and he climbs back into his bed, though he knows that at this point, sleep is futile. Levi’s words echo in his head. _Do you think I would have done any of this if I had a choice?_ There are broader implications to that statement, he thinks, and he cannot get that desperate look out of his head. And suddenly he knows why Levi is so angry. He is angry because it is a shield, front, a way to hide his own cracks, his own brokenness. Levi, he realizes, is just as shattered as he is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so they meet! tbh i keep laughing at the image of erwin being absolutely intimidated by this dude a foot shorter than him. anyway, i hope you enjoyed reading, and have a great day!


	3. The Gambler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when i said my update schedule sucks, i meant it. but here’s a cool 5k for you; i hope you enjoy <3

By seven PM, Erwin isn’t expecting any visitors. He’s perched comfortably in his chair by the window with a book in his lap, though its pages are illuminated by lamplight rather than the light of the dying sun. And so when a sharp rap on his doorframe echoes across the otherwise silent space, he jumps, looking up, startled. 

The redheaded girl he recognizes from his first day is there, peeking in almost shyly. Leila, he remembers her name is, and she gives him a small wave as he turns towards her. “Hi, Captain Smith,” she greets him, her voice just as bubbly and enthused as he remembers it. “Are you ready for tonight?”

Tonight? Erwin’s brows furrow in puzzlement. He’s gone to all his appointments for the day already, and he racks his brain, trying to remember any other commitment he’s made. He can’t think of one, and so he asks, “For what?” 

“It’s Tuesday. Tuesday is game night,” she informs him, and he vaguely remembers Eren mentioning something about that. But he’s tired, not just physically—he hasn’t slept well in too long to remember—but mentally too. When he sees his doctors and his therapists, he does his best to put a smile on his face, to show drive and enthusiasm and whatever else he knows they want to see, but after a while, maintaining that facade becomes exhausting. Most days, it is a struggle just to drag his body out of bed, to greet the new day, and he knows that’s a problem but he has so many other things to deal with that he thinks it’s fine to gloss over that particular one for a little while. Participating in a group activity is the last thing he wants to do right now. Especially after that fiasco in the courtyard with Ackerman. 

He gives Leila an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, I’m just not really feeling up to that tonight…”   
  
Immediately her smile disappears, replaced by an expression of concern. “Are you alright? Are you feeling sick? Should I call Dr. Yeager?” 

He is hit with a wave of guilt, and he just shakes his head. They’re all so accommodating, and he feels like he’s taking advantage of that. It’s not like she’s asking him to do anything difficult. 

“I’m fine,” he replies, that false smile gracing his lips once more. “Just a little worn-out.” 

She nods, albeit hesitantly. “Just… Just call if you need anything, okay? And if you change your mind, they’re in the lounge on the second floor.” 

He nods his affirmative, and she retreats back the way she came. Erwin tries to return to his book, but the trancelike state he had occupied for the past half an hour has been broken, and he cannot seem to focus on the pages. More than anything, he is disappointed in himself. It’s not like they’re asking him to jump out of a plane, though he _has_ done that before. It’s just a couple hours with some company. Surely he can manage that. Surely he isn’t so pathetic that he quails at the thought of socializing with others. 

He’s not a child that needs to be coddled and fussed over. If everyone else can do it, then he can too, and he rises to his feet and makes his way over to the mirror. He hates looking into it, hates the face that stares back at him, and so he combs his hair as quickly as possible, straightens his collar as best as he can, and peeks out into the hallway. It is empty other than the occasional nurse or assistant passing by, and he takes a deep breath, then crosses the threshold of relative safety that his room has come to represent. Nobody pays him much attention as he makes his way to the elevator and presses the button for the second floor. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in its shiny metal panes and tries not to wince. He can do this, he tells himself. He is _not_ weak and fragile.   
  
The sound of laughter echoes down the corridor, and Erwin pauses mid-step, his chest seized with sudden tightness. He does not want anyone to see him like this, like the ruin that he has become. For a moment, he is tempted to bolt, to run back in the direction he came. But he knows that if he does that, he’ll only despise himself more. So he grits his teeth, digs his nails into the palms of his hands, and forces himself to go forwards, towards the vibrant atmosphere. 

Inside, he sees Dr. Dominguez at the head of a long table, and about sixteen or so others gathered around it. Eren is there too, he realizes, seated beside a blonde man, and he waves enthusiastically when he sees Erwin in the doorway. 

“Captain Smith! Come in, we’re just finishing this game.” 

Of course, that immediately causes all heads to turn in his direction, and it is an effort of sheer willpower not to shy away. He manages a tight smile and slinks into the room, taking an empty seat in an unassuming position near the back. Once, he could command every room he walked into, radiating power and confidence. But that man is no more, and only a sad, faint echo remains in his place. As more of a habit than anything, his sharp eyes dart across the many assembled faces, assessing them as potential allies, assets, and threats. 

They are a motley crew. Some are tall and some are short, about a quarter of them are women, and some look as neat and crisp as a businessperson while others seem like they just rolled out of bed. All of them, though, have a faint cast to their eyes, a hardness that says they have been places that no one wants to go and for better or for worse, have come out alive. 

“Good evening, Erwin,” Dr. Dominguez greets, a warm smile on her full lips. “We’re just about to start a new game. How’s your poker prowess?” 

“Decent,” he tells her. It’s a little more than decent; he’s always had a knack for gambling, an instinct that pushes him to take risks and chase down paths that few are bold enough to follow. It’s served him well and paved the road to his success. It’s also gotten almost everyone he cares for killed. 

“We’ll see. Everyone take twenty caps,” she instructs, and Erwin watches as hands start reaching into the bucket in the middle. It’s filled to the brim with bottlecaps, and he frowns at them in puzzlement before the man beside him catches his gaze and chuckles softly. 

“That’s our currency. We don’t play for money here.” 

The man swivels in his seat to face him. “Gunther. Pleasure to meet you in person, Captain Smith,” he says, and sticks his hand out. Erwin stares at it for a second, and Gunther flushes red as he realizes, hurriedly yanking it back. “Shit, my bad…” 

  
“It’s all right,” Erwin assures him wearily. He’s gotten used to the awkwardness by now. “Please just… just call me Erwin.” 

Captain Smith is a veritable legend, a larger-than-life figure who has backup plans for his backup plans and always knows what to do. He’s in complete control of every situation, and Erwin does _not_ feel anything like him. He doesn’t even feel like he has control over his own life, and reminding him of the paragon he’d once been is painful. It hurts to think of how far he’s fallen. 

He’s distracted by a commotion across the table. “Eld, that’s about eighty caps too many. Put some back,” Dr. Dominguez instructs. “Put _most_ of those back, actually.”

A long-haired blonde man with a messy scruff on his chin shakes his head. “I’m missing a leg. I compensated with extra caps,” he says in such a serious voice that Erwin does a double-take. 

Dr. Dominguez just folds her arms over her chest, and the woman beside Eld can’t take it any longer; she bursts into a fit of laughter. Eld’s lips twitch, and Dr. Dominguez lets out an exasperated sigh, but Erwin can tell she’s amused. 

“That’s not quite how this works,” she informs him, and Eld reluctantly surrenders his mountain of caps. “All right, if everyone’s ready—Levi, quit lurking in the doorway and take a seat,” she adds, and Erwin can’t help but swivel in his seat to look. Standing there and leaning against the frame with an utterly bored expression is all five feet and three inches of Levi Ackerman, and he makes a derisive sound and blows his hair out of his face. 

“Tch. I spend enough time with idiots already,” he says, and for some reason, that makes Erwin want to strangle him. He doesn’t even know these people, but the way Levi looks down on all of them—looks _down_ , the diminutive bastard—is infuriating. 

“Maybe you’re afraid of losing,” he finds himself saying, and those wolf grey eyes bore into his, as hard and sharp as flint. 

“I’m not afraid of anything, moron.” 

“Prove it, then.” 

Levi stares at him for another minute, then stalks into the room like a tiger on the prowl, jerks the seat across from Erwin out, and slides into it. The air practically crackles with electricity as they glare at each other, dark clouds against a bright blue sky, only broken by Dr. Dominguez clearing her throat. 

“Both of you, behave,” she warns them, and Erwin, so pleased with the way he goaded Levi into the situation, is suddenly no longer proud of his victory. He feels like a child being told off in school, and granted, he supposes he _is_ acting like one. Levi Ackerman brings out the worst in him, and he hates him for it. 

The round begins, the room filling with the sound of jeers and good-natured jests. They’re all pretty familiar with each other, Erwin realizes, watching as they tease each other like old friends and laugh at the others’ misfortune. He would be lying if he said he doesn’t feel a little left out, and so he spends most of the game in relative silence. He tries to learn each of their names; the ginger-haired woman beside Eld is Petra, the serious-looking man with dark hair is called Nile, the man wearing what looks like a towel on his head is called Ness. Erwin is a much better poker player than all of them, he realizes. Most of them aren’t very good at lying; sooner or later, they always give themselves away. 

It’s funny, he thinks; all of them both take it very seriously and not seriously at all. There are attempts at flagrant violations of the rules, all of which are responded to by Dr. Dominguez’s wagging finger and a chorus of laughter from everyone else. Erwin finds himself laughing too, despite everything. This is a group of good, honest people, and he likes them. He doesn’t belong here, but he likes them. 

“Eren and Hannes, if you trade cards under the table one more time, I’m disqualifying you both,” Dr. Dominguez warns, and the teen flashes her a mischievous grin. 

“We’re on a team,” Eren returns, and Dr. Dominguez reaches across the table and smacks him lightly on the forehead with a newspaper, much to his amusement. 

“You’re a bad influence, that’s what you are. Aren’t you supposed to be doing your schoolwork?” she questions with a skeptical brow raised, and Eren looks down sheepishly. 

“Just this one last game?” 

“Just one,” she agrees, and Eren pumps his fist in triumph. He’s obviously popular among the patients; they tease him like he’s one of their own. He’s a good kid, Erwin thinks. He hopes he can stay that way. 

As the game goes on, players start dropping like flies, folding out until it’s just Levi and Erwin left. Levi’s gaze is filled with so much anger that it’s unreadable, and Erwin’s face is the perfect mask of calm. Around them, the others start taking bets and calling out encouragement. Erwin is surprised to hear a few enthusiastic cheers for Levi; despite the sergeant’s obvious disdain for everyone in the room, he seems well-liked, or at least well-respected. 

The stakes climb higher, and it doesn’t feel like a game anymore. Erwin studies his cards, weighing his options. There’s a safe play, one that won’t carry him to victory, but probably won’t let him lose, either. But there’s another option, one almost guaranteed to end the game if he plays it right, and likewise guaranteed to spell disaster if he guesses wrong. He stares at Levi, his eyes narrowed, as if searching for the answer in the sharp but oddly delicate lines of his face. 

He shouldn’t risk it, he tells himself. His last gamble didn’t end so well, and though these stakes are of a far lesser extent, his pride is on the line too. He should play safe, buy time to plan his next move. 

That’s what he should do, but his body is seized with the urge to lay it all on the line, and before he can stop himself, he makes his bet. Levi stares at him, a frown furrowing his brow, likely trying to guess if this is a false gamble, or if it is sincere. _Take the bait_ , Erwin urges him, though he keeps his face impassive. 

And he does. With a slow, triumphant smile spreading across his lips, Erwin lays his cards down, and Levi stares at them with an expression of almost… Well, he doesn’t know what it is. Disappointment, frustration, and if he didn’t know better he would swear that a hint of respect flashed across those cold eyes, but whatever it is, it is gone before he can put any more thought to it. Gunther claps him on the back, and the room breaks out in excited chattering. Apparently, Levi has a fifty-one-week undefeated streak. _Had_. Erwin takes far too much pride in ending that. 

He’s grinning, turning to reply to Nile when Hannes knocks over his metal water bottle, and it rolls off the table and clatters to the floor with a _clang_ that echoes throughout the room. And in an instant, Erwin is back across the sea, nodding to Mike, who kicks open the door to an abandoned warehouse serving as an insurgent base. They dart in, quiet and lethal as jaguars in the night, clearing rooms with practiced ease until someone stumbles into something in the darkness, and a metal canister falls to the floor. An explosion follows a second later, and Erwin is frozen, his eyes wide, hands gripping the table so tightly his knuckles turn white, and the world is just a ringing in his ears until he hears a faint voice calling his name in the background. 

“Erwin! Erwin!” it says, and he gasps like a drowning man as he snaps back into reality. Dr. Dominguez is in front of him, her usually jovial expression serious. “It’s all right. Breathe slowly, with me. You’re all right. There we go,” she murmurs as he obeys, his rapid heartbeat slowly returning to normal. 

Dimly, he realizes that not only did he just lose his goddamn mind over a _water bottle,_ but he did it in front of everyone, too. His face burns crimson, and he stands abruptly, swaying because his remaining limbs are still shaking, but he forces them to obey him anyway. 

“I—If you’ll excuse me,” he rasps, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper, and he retreats from the room like the Devil is chasing him. At some point, he breaks into a run, forgoing the elevator to race up the stairs and through the hallways. He startles several of the staff, who call after him, but he does not stop until he is back in his room, where he collapses to the floor, knees pressed against the cold tile. A pair of nurses rush in not long after and help ease him up onto the bed; Erwin is limp and unresisting. They ask him questions, and he answers them the best that he can, but he is only half present. It’s instinct to dissociate when he feels like this, to attempt to detach himself from reality, and he wishes they would let him. They ask him if he wants medicine, a sedative, and Erwin is sorely tempted, but he shakes his head. He doesn’t get to get off that easy, to push away his troubles into a drug-induced bliss. This is the punishment he earned for what he has done, and it is well-deserved. To try to escape it would be an insult to those who paid a far steeper price for his mistakes. 

They finally leave him alone, and Erwin stares at the ceiling, feeling like a weight has settled upon his chest, one that makes even the slightest breath a struggle. If they didn’t look at him and see a pathetic, broken shell of a man before, they certainly do now. _Goddammit_ , why can’t he be stronger? Why can’t he bear this quietly, stoically, like a _man_ and not a little glass doll?

He doesn’t want to get up. He doesn’t want to leave this room, ever, if he can help it, but there’s a nagging voice in the back of his head that won’t let him rest. _Come on, Erwin,_ it says. It is his father’s voice, a faded echo through the years, and Erwin is a shaggy-haired boy of six again, learning to ride a bicycle for the first time. His knees are scraped and bloody, his clothes are covered in grass stains, and his face is a blotchy mess of tears, but his father just smiles patiently. _Come on, you can do it. Don’t give up now._

If there is one lesson he has retained from those days, it is persistence. If he falls, he must get up and try again. He may be broken, but he is not beaten, not yet. Slowly, shakily, he climbs to his feet. He cannot make them forget, but perhaps he can redeem himself. That is what his father would want him to do. 

So he makes his way back down, face still pale, sweat still beaded on his brow, but determined to take back some semblance of control. The lounge has been mostly vacated, but still seated around the table is Eren with a laptop in front of him, Hannes hovering over his shoulder, and Eld and Petra playing a card game on the other side. They look up as he enters, giving him casual nods of acknowledgement. Neither says anything about earlier, and he is grateful. 

Eren looks visibly frustrated. He rakes his fingers through his hair, then leans forward and rests his head in his hands. “I hate everything about triangles,” he mumbles, and behind him, Hannes laughs. 

“This one’s outta my expertise, kid. I c’n see if I can round up Nile; he’s good with stuff like this. But I’m sure not.” The mustached man laughs, then looks over to see Erwin walk in. “Hey, Smith! You any good at trig?” 

Erwin walks over to take a look. Eren manages a smile, spinning the computer to face him. “All yours, sir.” 

Once-bright blue eyes scan the open page, and Erwin hums thoughtfully. He hasn’t touched math like this since college, but once upon a time, he was rather good at it. “Law of Cosines,” he muses, nodding. This is something he can do, and he eagerly jumps at the chance to be useful. “How can I help?” 

“I just… I don’t know, I don’t get it. Sorry, I’m kinda stupid at school,” Eren adds quickly, his ears turning red. 

Erwin shakes his head immediately. “This sort of thing isn’t intuitive to most people. You’re not stupid if you don’t understand it right away. May I sit?” he asks, and Eren gestures for him to pull out the chair beside him. 

He slides into the seat and swivels the computer back around so Eren can see. “Trig is all about puzzles. They give you a little bit of information, and you plug it into formulas to find what you’re looking for.” 

“Yeah, that makes sense. I just don’t know which one to use when,” Eren replies with a sheepish grin. He pushes a piece of paper towards the captain, and Erwin studies it to find it full of an admittedly daunting list of formulas. As a force of habit, he goes to reach for a pen, then remembers he doesn’t have a right hand when he just awkwardly bumps into the table. Is he _ever_ going to get used to that? 

To his gratitude, neither Hannes nor Eren comments on it, and he instead picks up a pen with his left hand. It feels awkward and clumsy in his fingers, and when he tries to draw a triangle, he can’t help but laugh at the lopsided shape he manages to produce. Once upon a time, he had rather nice handwriting. Those days, like many others, are long gone. 

“It can be hard to see at first. But what you’re doing is looking for the formula that fits the information you have. Look at this first problem; what do they give you?” Erwin asks. 

Eren bites his lip, looking like he is afraid to give the wrong answer. “Uh, one side is thirteen and one side is nine and that angle there is forty-two degrees?” 

“Perfect. And what are you looking for?” 

“The, uh, third side?” 

“So you have two sides and an angle, right? Angles are usually represented with capital letters and side lengths with lower-case letters. So if you’re solving for a side length, what do you want by itself on one side of the equals sign?” 

“A lower-case letter,” Eren says, and Erwin coaches him step-by-step through the problem. He has always had an inordinate amount of patience, and when Eren stumbles over the process once or twice, he slows down to walk him through it. He feels an odd sense of deja vu; his father was a teacher, and Erwin remembers how he used to sit beside him at their kitchen table and help him with his homework. _You always did want me to follow in your footsteps, didn’t you?_

“So if it’s three sides and an angle, you do this one?” Eren asks, pointing to a different formula. Erwin nods his affirmative, and the teen grins, pleased. “Okay. This sucks, but maybe not as much as I thought.” 

Erwin laughs, and Hannes leans over to look again. “Guess Nile has some competition for our resident brainiac, huh?” 

They chat quietly while Eren finishes the rest of his problems, occasionally interrupted by a request for help. He learns that Hannes is from a big family in Louisiana, which, given his thick Southern drawl, isn’t surprising. He enlisted in the Army straight out of high school and did two tours before the vehicle he was driving got pinned down by enemy fire, and he took a bullet through the thigh that shattered his femur. He’s been here two months doing rehab and is expected to get out soon, he says, though he admits with a grin that he doesn’t know what _soon_ means. Erwin listens, fascinated and slightly envious. Despite everything, Hannes seems so happy and carefree, and Erwin isn’t sure whether he’s annoyed at him or annoyed at himself. Why can’t he be the same way? 

A loud bang echoes through the room as Eren slams his textbook shut, and both of them jump a mile in the air. “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry,” Eren immediately apologizes. 

Hannes just laughs it off. “Y’all ever used to drop your textbooks on the floor in the middle of class just to scare the teacher? Man, I remember…” 

It is a significant effort for Erwin to relax, but he takes several deep breaths to slow his heartbeat as Hannes launches into a story. He loves to talk, Erwin has noticed. That’s all right; these days, Erwin much prefers to listen. 

He has no idea how much time passes before Dr. Dominguez pokes her head back in the door. “Eren, your father’s looking for you. Hello again, Erwin. Get conned into homework duty?” 

“Something like that,” he replies, and this time, when he smiles, it is genuine. 

“Careful there. If he figures out you’re a softie, he’ll persuade you into writing entire essays for him,” she warns, and Erwin’s grin broadens. 

“I think I can handle it,” he returns, and Dr. Dominguez just shakes her head. 

Eren scoops his stuff into his arms and flashes Erwin a beaming smile. “Thanks, Captain Smith. You’re the best. Hey, Dr. Dominguez, where _is_ my dad?”

“Playing with his toys in the lab with Hanji. Go on, shoo, leave these geezers alone,” Dr. Dominguez commands, and Eren salutes her then hurries off. She turns back to look at the rest of them. “Ten PM curfew, gentlemen—and Petra—all right?” 

“You got it, Doc,” Hannes agrees easily. “Was just about to head back anyway. Nice meetin’ ya, Smith.” 

He stands up and reaches for a pair of crutches leaning against the wall. Fitting them under his arms, he swings himself out, whistling cheerfully. Erwin supposes that he should return to his room too; he’s certainly filled his social interaction quota for the day. 

But he’s glad he came back. _You were right, as usual,_ he tells his father’s ghost as he climbs the stairs that will take him back to his floor. A sudden wave of weariness hits him as crosses the doorway into his room, and he hopes that it means he will sleep uninterrupted tonight. If the universe can grant him a single gift, it would be that; he has forgotten how it feels to look forward to the night instead of dreading it, to dream of frivolous things instead of nightmares that leave his body shaking. 

But perhaps that is too much to ask for. He dreams that he is being chased through a warehouse by faceless men, and when they catch him, they put a gun in his hands—in his dreams, he always has two—and tell him to shoot a lone figure sitting in a chair. His finger twitches on the trigger, but the figure looks up and Erwin’s breath catches in his throat as he recognizes the face. It’s Mike, staring at his captain with a look of total resignation, and Erwin tries to lower his hands. “No, I won’t do it, I—”

He pulls the trigger. The bullet whistles from the barrel, spinning in slow motion, until it buries itself between his friend’s eyes. “ _NO_!” Erwin shouts, and rushes forward, but it is too late; the light has already left those steely blue eyes. He sits upright, gasping for air, his heart pounding in his chest, and for the second time, he makes his way into the relative quiet of the night. This time, the orderly lets him go without question, and he shoves open the door and gulps down lungfuls of the early morning air. 

When he makes his way past the bench under the massive oak tree, he finds Levi again perched on top of it, a strangely pensive look on his face. When he notices Erwin, those slender features twist into a scowl. “Seriously? This is my spot; get your own.” 

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you to share?” Erwin retorts. Lately, Levi has been the winner of their verbal spats, and he would very much like to change that. 

The raven-haired man rolls his eyes. “My mother’s been dead a long time, moron.” 

It is not at all the answer he expected, and he is momentarily taken aback. “I’m sorry,” is his automatic response, and he is; losing a parent is not a fate he would wish upon anyone. 

“Tch. What for? You didn’t do it. I hate when people apologize for no reason.” 

“It’s called _empathy_ ,” Erwin replies. “Though it may be a concept unfamiliar to you.” 

He could have sworn that he sees Levi’s lips twitch like he’s holding back a grin. “Well, save it for someone else. Or better yet, yourself. Your head’s pretty fucked too, isn’t it, Smith?” 

Erwin wants to argue, but he can’t. Not after they all saw him flip out over nothing. Hell, Levi’s seen him stumbling around in the dark twice with his shirt soaked through with sweat; there’s no fooling him. So instead he sighs and moves to take a seat. Levi scoots to the far end of the bench, as far away as humanly possible, but Erwin is too wrapped up in his own thoughts to care. 

“Does it ever get better?” he asks. 

He hates the way his voice sounds, so desperate and pathetic, but he needs to know that it won’t be like this forever. 

Levi’s response is a stoic shrug. “Sometimes. Some people, they’re lucky. Others…” He trails off and shrugs again, though there’s a pained look in his eyes that suggests that he hasn’t named himself among the lucky one. Erwin can’t hate him, no matter how much he wants to, because this bitter, angry scrap of a man is just as shattered as he is. 

Levi seems uncomfortable talking about it, and he quickly switches the subject. “You’re pretty friendly with the brat,” he says, and Erwin is back to wanting to strangle him. “You shouldn’t do that.” 

“Why not?” Erwin demands. “You know, _some_ of us are capable of kindness towards others.” 

The smaller man barks out a humorless laugh. “Will you climb off your high horse, shut up, and listen? Don’t give him stupid ideas. The friendlier you get with him, the more he’s gonna want to be like you. He’d probably suck your dick if you asked him right now; he talks about you _all the fucking time_. It’s annoying, really. But the brat already has it in his head that he wants to enlist, and you being all chummy with him won’t help that. You want him to end up like us?” he snaps, a fire in his words. 

Erwin blinks, startled. And then he processes what Levi is saying, and can’t help the note of amusement that creeps into his voice. “And here I thought you didn’t care about anyone, Ackerman.” 

“Tch. I’m not doing it for _him_. There’s enough taxpayer dollars that go to waste trying to fix people like us; it’s stupid to do things to add to that,” Levi counters, but Erwin doesn’t believe a word of it. Maybe, just maybe, Levi Ackerman isn’t the cold-hearted bastard he wants everyone to think he is. 

Levi stands abruptly and brushes off his pants. “Anyone ever told you that you’re shit company, Smith?” 

“Once or twice.” 

Yeah Levi definitely smirks at that. “At least you’re honest. Don’t follow me,” he commands, and then strides off into the night. Erwin watches him go, head tilted with interest. Levi is a puzzle, but Erwin has always had a knack for solving puzzles. And this is one that he looks forward to figuring out. 


End file.
